


So long as I have breath in my lungs.

by The_Leafy_Sea_Dragon



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Insomnia, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, Pre-Relationship, late night runs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 06:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17719685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Leafy_Sea_Dragon/pseuds/The_Leafy_Sea_Dragon
Summary: Ronan struggles with insomnia.Running helps, K doesn't.





	So long as I have breath in my lungs.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic happened because of a line in a Mumford song, and scrolling through fanart on tumblr--seems I'm not the only one thinking Ronan would totally go for a midnight run to deal with his insomnia. It's probably a one shot, buuuut then again, I might continue it.
> 
> The timeline of the fic you ask? Oh, who knows, I'm guessing somewhere during the Dream Thieves? But also obviously a tiny bit non-canon-compliant...
> 
> As always with anything I post: it's completely unbetaed, thus probably riddled with typos and mistakes. :P

**3:32 a.m.**

Ronan glared at the offending clock, trying to will it to display a less un-godly hour. Ever since he’d found his father’s cold body he hadn’t slept a full night.

Ronan’s less healthy ways of dealing with his insomnia included street racing, fighting, drinking, and worst of all: Kavinsky.

Ronan’s healthier coping mechanisms included going out for orange juice with Gansey, or running.

 

**3:34 a.m.**

Ronan felt that restlessness, the anxiety pumping through his veins. The urge to blow something up. To smell burnt rubber on asphalt. To chug a bottle of whiskey. 

Frustrated he kicked his covers off and reached for the phone.

Three messages. All from Kavinsky.

 

1: ” _Hey princess, miss me?” /K_

 

_2: ”Stop blowing 3 and quit ignoring me, fag” /K_

 

_3: ”come suck me off instead—I know you want to”_

 

Included with the last message was a picture of K’s—or what Ronan at least assumed was K’s—hard dick.

 

Ronan felt hot and cold at the same time, his stomach twisting but his dick twitching. He hated K. _Hated_ him. Loved to race that Bulgarian POS, loving that adrenalin rush. But hated him all the same. Yet, the thought of…not blowing Kavinsky, per se, but doing _that_ with anyone. _That’s_ what got to him, that and that K was the only one to ever have showed any kind of interest in Ronan like that.

FUCK

Ronan angrily got out of bed, half-hard and frustrated. He wanted to race Kavinsky. He wanted to punch him in the throat. And possibly, he wanted to kiss him.

Groaning, Ronan reached for his car keys and started pulling on a pair of jeans. Changed his mind and reached for his gym shorts and a tank instead.

 

**3:46**

Nighttime runs were great stress release. The quiet of Henrietta at night calmed the fire inside of Ronan. The world only consisted of him, his breath, and the asphalt.

Even just tying his runners before heading out made Ronan felt a bit calmer. More focused, less anxious.

He grabbed his phone and his headphones, snuck past a sleeping Gansey and out into the Henrietta night.

Ronan filled his lungs with the cold night air and started running. His phone buzzed.

 

_”dont pretend ur sleeping. i know ur not. I could help you relax tho. /K”_

 

Ronan pretended to ignore the text, turned his music up louder and continued running. Each step calmed him, if only a little. Soon enough though, Ronan had to start focusing on his breathing as it got more strained, and somehow, that calmed him further.

By the end of the first mile he’d almost forgotten about Kavinsky’s texts. By the second mile he’d almost forgotten the twisted feeling in his stomach paired with the heat pooling there too at the suggestion he’d blow Kavinsky. That he’d blow anyone. _How does K even know?_ Does _he know?_ By the third mile Ronan was pretty sure it wasn’t K he wanted, just that he wanted someone. And if he was being honest with himself, he knew who that someone was.

Ronan kept running aimlessly, but by the fourth mile he’d somehow gotten to St Agnes. Ronan groaned internally at himself. Running to K’s would have been better than this. He slowed down and stopped in the shadow of one of the big elm trees lining the street as a dark figure made its way up the stairs. Ronan watched the tall, slender, tired figure making his way up to the second floor. Adam must’ve just gotten home from his shift at the factory.

The agitation Ronan had worked off during the last four miles was back. His phone buzzed.

 

” _This could be us but u r fucking 3 instead. Or is he fucking you?”_

 

It was a photo of Prokopenko blowing Kavinky in what looked like the driver’s seat of the Mitsubishi. Ronan felt sick. K _knew._ He knew about Ronan. Adam didn’t know. Adam didn’t want him anyway, he wanted Blue. Maybe K was what he deserved—K was a bastard, Ronan was a bastard. Maybe they did belong together. Ronan was going to vomit.

 

When he looked up he met Adam’s surprised eyes across the street. He panicked and ran. Sprinted down the street towards Monmouth, towards whiskey, towards alcohol-induced oblivion. Possibly towards the BMW and a race. Or a drive to K. Why was he even fighting it anymore? Ronan ran, feet pounding the asphalt. _Fuck. Fuck. FUUUUUCK._ His lungs were aching but he kept pushing. Faster. His chest was going to explode. From hypoxia or heartbreak or self-hatred, he didn’t know. Ronan kept pushing. Faster. Lungs burning, legs burning, eyes burning. With the burn his head started to clear again, _why did he let K get to him like this?_

 

**4:27**

The familiar silhouette of Monmouth was in front of him now and he sprinted the last bit, letting the wall catch him.

Now Ronan was sure, no he didn’t want K, so what if his body reacted to the pictures and the suggestions, the thought of touching him was as sickening as the thought of touching _someone_ was exhilarating.

Before he had time to change his mind Ronan pushed off of the wall, turned and stared running back the way he’d came.

 

Still agitated Ronan knocked on the door. He heard footsteps inside, and before he could run away again the door opened.

Adam didn’t say anything, just opened the door wide enough to let Ronan inside. For a few seconds they just looked at each other, Adam looked exhausted, and then he silently went back to bed. Ronan went into the bathroom to have a shower. He’d borrowed a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from Adam.

When he got out from the bathroom he saw that Adam had laid out the blanket and pillow Ronan used while sleeping at St Agnes, and Ronan laid down on the floor next to Adam’s mattress. Listening to Adam’s even breaths Ronan finally felt calm enough to sleep.

 

**7:46**

Ronan woke up on the floor next to Adam’s cheap IKEA mattress, Adam’s arm hanging over the side, hand resting on Ronan’s chest. Ronan turned his head, surprised at how close Adam’s face was. Features still relaxed in sleep. His fingers itched to reach out and brush the hair out of his face. Kiss those soft lips of his. Ronan was painfully in love with him. And for another 4 minutes before Adam’s alarm went off he could let himself study his sleeping face, revel in the feeling of the warm hand on his chest. Another 4 minutes of absolute internal calm left before reality hit again. Ronan would let himself have this. These 4 minutes. Then it was back to being Adam’s friend, and nothing more.

 

**7:47**

Adam sighed deeply and opened his eyes looking straight at Ronan. Adam smiled thinly. He looked down at his hand resting on Ronan’s chest and then back up at Ronan, but he didn’t remove his hand. Simply spread his fingers a little, moving them to rest right over Ronan’s heart. 

”Hey.”

”Hey.”

 


End file.
